


close encounters of the moth kind

by interstellarstrut



Category: Gravity Falls, ParaNorman (2012)
Genre: M/M, Parapines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 08:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16155221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interstellarstrut/pseuds/interstellarstrut
Summary: an impromptu christmas trip to point pleasant, west virginia. the boys bro down with mothman.





	close encounters of the moth kind

**Author's Note:**

> parapines? in my 2018? it's more likely than you think.
> 
> i know mothman is normally followed by other paranormal occurrences and the men in black, but i didn't want to make this fic drag on any longer than it already was. i hope you enjoy!

“I’ve been attacked by Mothman.”

“You were attacked by a tree,” Norman deadpans. Dipper winces, both at the sting of the hydrogen peroxide and his boyfriend’s bluntness.

“Being attacked by Mothman sounds so much cooler, though.”

Norman cracks a smile and tilts Dipper’s chin up so he can clean the scratches on his neck. “Yeah, but aren’t you trying to prove that he’s harmless? That’d kinda go against your thesis.”

“Not _harmless_. He did kill a dog.” He straightens his head after Norman’s murmur of “finished” and rubs the cuts on his cheek. “Just, like, chaotic neutral. Instead of chaotic evil. Do you feel sick?”

“Do I — what? Uhh, not really.”

“Damn. Reports of nausea follow a lot of the sightings. I don’t feel it either.”

“You were too caught up tripping over a tree root to — ”

“I get it, I know!” He cuts him off, earning a burst of laughter from Norman. He can’t help but laugh himself, protesting further, “I was a _little_ thrown off by the red eyes in front of us!”

“It could’ve been our light reflecting off a deer’s eyes. Don’t be so quick to jump the moth-gun.”

“Moth gun… Not your best idea.”

“Unless you’re on the receiving end of it,” he says with a grin. “We’re going back out to try to find it again, aren’t we?”

“You know it.” Dipper stands up and turns on the hotel room’s coffee maker. “We got so close. To the TNT plant, if you don’t want to call those eyes Mothman’s.”

“It’s not that I don’t _want_ them to be.” He slips the first aid kit back into his backpack and shrugs. “I just think we should be careful to jump to that conclusion. Don’t hurt your knees, or whatever.”

“They already are. I’ve jumped, I’ve landed.”

“I guess that’s fair,” Norman says.

The coffee maker turns itself off with a tired sigh. Dipper pours his and holds a styrofoam cup out to Norman, brows raised in question. He shakes his head, so Dipper tugs on his jacket and hoists his bag over his shoulder. “Mothman, here we come.”

Forever a Californian, Dipper feels the December air bite through his jacket the second they step outside. He downs some of the coffee in an attempt to stay warm, then shifts the cup and takes Norman’s hand. A smiles tinges on Norman’s face, and he squeezes his hand. They walk through the sleepy city in content quiet; most all of the shops are closed, and it seems like everyone is inside.

Everyone except for the two cryptid hunters, of course.

Norman looks up at the stars as they walk. They’re fairly bright here, moreso the closer they get to the TNT plant. He finds Orion’s belt and moves around from there, the same way Dipper taught him some years ago. Taurus’s red eye glints down at him, as if reminding him why they’re there. He frowns up at it, admittedly a little worried about the whole situation. Gravity Falls’ Mothman — rather, Moth Man, an important distinction — is one thing — just a conglomeration of moths that explodes when you touch it. But Point Pleasant Mothman is unpredictable and apparently makes you sick just to look at.

He supposes he signed up for unpredictable, though.

“We still have to look at the statue, you know. Once it’s daylight,” says Dipper, drawing Norman out of his thoughts.

“I thought you said it was a disgrace to the real thing.”

“I mean, yeah.” He lets go of his hand to bring his bag around, unzips it and shoves his now-empty cup inside. “He’s not that humanoid. Or that moth-like. The ass, though, I’d say is accurate.”

Norman can’t help but laugh and shakes his head. “Please tell me we’re taking a picture with Mothman’s ass.”

“We’re taking a picture with Mothman’s ass!” He declares, and even in the dark, Norman can see his eyes light up.

They’ve drawn close to the TNT plant now, and Norman gets the flashlight out of his bag. Dipper retrieves a couple of his disposable cameras and tucks all but one into his coat pockets, even though there’s already several in each to begin with. It’s barren; no signs of movement, moth or otherwise. He keeps the flashlight off for now, trying to preserve their night vision a little longer.

“Should we go inside?” Dipper asks, gesturing to the plant.

“I don’t really want to make him angry. Maybe let’s… look around out here for now, and if we don’t find anything in the next hour, we’ll go in.”

“That’s… probably smart, yeah. Look for any animal carcasses or movement. Or eyes, of course. I don’t think he normally leaves any prints.” Dipper walks to the left of the plant entrance, happy with just the light from the moon to see.

Norman goes the other way and flicks the flashlight on its lowest setting. The ground is torn up with ruts and tree roots, and he’s careful to watch his step as he scouts the area; he knows he’d never live it down if he ate shit the same way Dipper did earlier.

They didn’t really _plan_ on coming to find Mothman. The only holiday plan they had was flying out to Mabel and Pacifica’s house to stay with them for a week. Somewhere between that discussion and two days ago, Dipper mentioned Point Pleasant, Norman agreed that it’d be fun, and now, here they are. At the time, he had thought that Dipper meant the trip in theory, or sometime in the future.

He’s not too sure _why_ he thought that. Dipper would marry Mothman if he had the chance.

Norman’s more of a Loveland Frog man, himself.

It’s one of the things he enjoys about living with Dipper, even if it stresses him out sometimes. He’s never quite sure where they’ll end up: hopelessly lost in Downtown Manhattan, at the hotel that inspired _The Shining_ , or back home in Blithe Hollow.

Or, you know, searching the woods at midnight for dead animals.

He crouches down at a pair of deer tracks. They’re definitely not Mothman, but he touches the ground to see how cold it is, thinking it may be the deer they spooked earlier. He’s not sure where they were in relation to the plant — definitely not this close to it, but the eyes could’ve reflected from here, if they were even facing this way.

He sits on his heels and looks back up at the sky. Taurus’s eye is almost right above him now, and he’s able to pick out the Big Dipper from behind the trees. It brings him comfort in some weird way, he supposes. No matter where they go, the stars are always the same. He stands up and dusts off the knees of his jeans, resuming his scan of the area.

The unsettling landscape settles back in almost immediately, and he feels a pit grow in his stomach. Shadows cast very odd shapes. That’s true of any area and time, but it feels particularly worse here. Norman rubs his eyes and scoots the flashlight’s switch up a notch, more relieved than anything when it dispels all of the suspicious silhouettes around him. He’s about to move further through the trees when he hears soft footsteps behind him, and he whirls around so quickly that he nearly stumbles in one of the ruts.

“Whoa, easy, man.” Dipper grabs his shoulder to steady him, and Norman lets out an unsteady laugh.

“Sorry. I let things get to my head for a second.”

“Well, let’s chase them back out of there, cause we have a moth to corner.” He nods towards the plant entrance with a grin. “Whaddya say?”

“Yeah. I don’t think he’s out for a stroll,” says Norman.

They walk side-by-side to the small, overgrown building. Norman flashes his light over it, getting a good look at it for the first time. The grass and foliage that covers the top is mostly dead, brown and brittle. The doors are securely shut, by the looks of it, and aren’t nearly as vandalized as he thought they’d be. Maybe it’s out of respect for Mothman.

“How heavy do you think those doors are?” Dipper shifts his backpack from one shoulder to both, already rolling up his sleeves.

“TNT plant heavy,” Norman chuckles.

Movement at the ground catches their eyes before they can take another step closer. Norman whacks the back of the flashlight, suddenly intent on dimming itself, before pointing it at the ground. He thinks it’s a rabbit, at first, scuttling around before deciding on a direction to run.

And then it keeps growing.

He finds himself rooted to the spot as a dark figure seems to sprout out of the ground just in front of the doors, towering higher and higher over him. Glowing red eyes lock onto his, and he’s able to reign in some of his senses.

“Uh… Dipper…?”

Dipper is laughing wildly and fumbles with one of the cameras. “Holy shit! Holy shit, he was right here the whole time! I have to get a picture!”

They’re experiencing two totally different ranges of emotions, Norman realizes.

Mothman raises to what Norman assumes is his full height. It’s truly impressive, he has to admit — at least a foot taller than he is. The three stand there, just like that, for a few moments. He doesn’t question it. It feels like they’re greeting each other. At least, it does until Mothman rises straight up into the air above them.

Norman blindly fumbles for Dipper’s sleeve, realizing that something is about to go direly wrong. He latches onto it as soon as a high pitched whine sounds far above them and pulls hard, the two shouting at the same time,

“Oh, _shit_!”

“Dude, _run_!”

They tear through the woods, the flashlight bouncing erratically off the trees. The screech over their heads fades in and out as their pace varies, which unsettles them more than they’d care to admit. A flash catches Norman’s eye, and he looks over his shoulder to see Dipper shooting the camera up at the sky. He notices him looking and says, “I have to get at least _one_ good picture!”

“If we’re eaten by Mothman tonight, I’m going to kill you!”

“Yeah, that’s fair!”

Despite himself, Norman starts laughing. He dares a glance upwards to see that Mothman is still keeping up, just a dark blob with wings high above. Simply getting into town won’t stop him; there’s plenty of accounts of him showing up in backyards. They have to get _inside_. He outstretches his hand, and Dipper gets a firm hold on it. He makes a hard right, taking them off the beaten path; admittedly, a possibly fatally stupid decision, but it’s too late for that now. He ducks under a low-hanging branch and bends his free arm in front of his face to protect it from the branches flying by.

“Do you know where we’re going?” Dipper shouts from behind him, already sounding winded.

“Not really!” He admits, and hears Dipper laugh, a mix of amusement and exasperation.

A splotch of eerie green is close to the ground a little further ahead; he squints and realizes it’s a dog. It barks excitedly at them as they approach, its translucent tail wagging hard and fast. He can’t help but smile as they pass it, and it takes off in front of them, darting through the thick woods. The bright green stands out against the dark trees and makes it easy for Norman to follow. He assumes that it’s leading them out of the woods, though realizes it could just as easily be bringing them to its old play area, or something.

Their lives may very well be riding on a ghost dog.

The dog barks somewhere ahead of them, seemingly uncaring of the Mothman. He suddenly remembers Dipper saying it killed a dog several years back, and he can’t help but wonder if it’s the same one they’re following now. When they catch back up with it, it’s standing still, tail absolutely pumping. Streetlights shine through the trees, and he realizes that they’re almost back to the city.

“Thanks, boy!” He waves at it, and though he didn’t tell Dipper, he’s able to get the idea that something helped them out.

“Thank you!”

Norman pulls them through the thinning trees and leaps over a guardrail — one that was probably there to prevent exactly this from happening — bringing them back inside Point Pleasant. The whine doesn’t let up as they barrel past the statue, so they don’t stop until they reach the hotel. They all but slam into the revolving door, almost getting stuck in it when they squeeze into the same section but manage to tumble out onto the lobby floor.

“Holy shit.” Norman doubles over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Dipper is laughing beside him, running through variations of “oh my gosh!” until he notices the very confused, somewhat alarmed receptionist.

She opens and closes her mouth several times, unsure of what to say, before settling on, “Can I… help you?”

“Oh, no, we’re just, uh, going up to our room. Thanks!” Dipper says and pulls Norman to the elevator. Another burst of laughter escapes once the doors shut. “We saw Mothman!”

“We saw Mothman,” Norman confirms. “Significantly less… moth than I thought. A little more bat out of hell.” He takes a deep breath, probably the first one of the night. “I don’t know if this is Mothman nausea or I-just-ran-for-my-life nausea.”

He agrees and gives his shoulder a bump as the doors open to their floor. “Maybe he just wanted to talk to us. He’s a misunderstood cryptid.”

“Our elevator is in tact, so he wasn’t warning us of unstable architecture. Maybe every time he tries to talk it just comes out as an amplified mosquito.”

Dipper stops dead in his tracks, which Norman doesn’t notice for several steps. He falters when he reaches their room and turns to look at him. “...What?”

“He’s not totally moth. What if he’s mosquito?”

He shudders and shoves the keycard into the scanner. “I think he would’ve been much thinner. And I would be having many more nightmares. He’s not mosquito.”

“Fair point.” He grins and follows him inside, all but collapsing on the bed. “Fuck, I hope those pictures turned out.”

“I’d think at least one did. Seemed like you took a lot.” Norman sits on the edge of the bed and kicks his shoes off before turning to face Dipper. “It was a dog that lead us out, by the way.”

“I figured it was something like that, after you called it ‘boy.’” Dipper laughs, lifting his head up from the sheets so he can see him. “Maybe it was Bandit’s ghost. I don’t know what kind of dog he was, so it could’ve been.”

“I was a little afraid he’d lead us to an old doghouse or something.”

Before he can reply, Dipper’s stomach feels as though it has dropped to the floor. It’s not the aftermath of sprinting for so long, a different feeling than that. He looks towards the window, and his initial fear is confirmed: two glowing eyes stare back at him. They’re on the _third floor_ — there’s only one thing it could be. It’s significantly less scary than it was outside, only because of the glass between them, now, but they look much… bigger than his first impression. He stammers for a moment, which draws Norman’s attention to it, too. They lunge up at the same time and draw the curtains; the glow persists through the thin fabric for a few more moments, then slowly fades away. They look at each other in disbelief, and Dipper slides to the ground, a wide grin on his face. “We’re being hunted.”

“Oh _god_ , don’t say that. You’ve already put the idea of a Mosquitoman in my head.” Norman holds his hands out to him. “I want to sleep tonight without being haunted by that thought.”

He takes his hands, but instead of pulling himself up, he tugs hard, bringing Norman down with him. He’s laughing, tries to ask “Dipper, what?” but Dipper hooks an arm under his knees and around his shoulders and stands. He parades around the room with him in his arms.

“We escaped the Mothman!”

“Yes, but _why_ does that lead to you carrying me?” Norman is still laughing, and he reaches up to put his arms around Dipper’s neck.

“I dunno. Seemed celebratory,” he says.

“You got me there, I guess.”

He sits down on the bed and leans back, letting go of Norman’s legs but keeps one arm around his shoulders. “It might be too early to say ‘escaped.’”

“I don’t think he’ll follow us out of Point Pleasant. If he really wanted to leave, he would’ve by now. He was probably just getting one last look at us in case we ever come back.”

“There were some sightings in Chicago back in 2017. I don’t really buy them, though. Weird time for him to leave and then come right back.”

Norman reaches up and plucks Dipper’s hat off his head. “It’s late. We should try to sleep so we’ll have time to actually do things tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” He lets go of him so they can get up and pull the blankets back. Dipper flicks off the overhead light and settles under the covers, and Norman is quick to lay his head on his chest. Dipper curls his fingers through his hair and mumbles, “Goodnight, don’t let the bedmoths bite.”

* * *

 

Sunlight streams through the flimsy curtain, the angle just right to hit Norman’s eyes. He blinks them open long enough to scowl at the sun, as if that’d make it hide behind the clouds, then rolls over to attempt to chase his sleep back down. His fingers stretch out across the sheet to find it cold, and he opens his eyes again, brow furrowed. It takes a minute for him to wake up and realize why he’s confused: Dipper is nowhere to be found. The bathroom light is off, so he isn’t anywhere inside the room.

He didn’t expect Dipper Pines to sleep the night after they were chased by Mothman, not really.

He stands up and makes the bed as best he can, figuring it’ll just be stripped down anyways when they check out later. The door opens as he’s trying to find clothes for the day, and he looks up to see Dipper, wearing one too many coats and yet still with a pink nose and cheeks. He holds up two to-go coffee cups with a smile.

“They had Mothman Brew.”

Norman gives a smile of his own and goes to get his cup. Dipper presses a kiss to his forehead and sets his own cup down to shrug off the jackets before he overheats. “Sorry. I couldn’t get back to sleep, and I knew I’d wake you up if I stayed.”

He shrugs, trying the tiniest sip of the hot coffee — it’s hazelnut, he thinks. “It’s alright. I figured. What do you want to do today?”

“Not get chased, preferably. I think that was a little much for one night.”

“Just a little,” he laughs. “We can get the film developed and get lunch somewhere. Take a picture with Mothman’s ass before we go to the airport.”

“I didn’t get a good look at his ass last night, but I still think the statue is accurate.”

“Two eyewitnesses say the ass is accurate. Said eyewitnesses never specified which part they eyewitnessed.”

“Exactly!” Dipper gets his backpack from the floor and sits on the bed, digging through the cameras piled inside. “Go ahead and get dressed. By the time you’re ready, I’ll have figured out which of these I used last night. Hopefully.”

“I’m amazed you didn’t lose any.”

“I don’t think I did, anyways. We’ll find out.”

Norman finally finds his red sweater and tugs it over his head. Dipper has two cameras in hand, frowning at the others spread out on the sheet. “Those won’t survive the airport x-ray, will they?”

“Don’t think so. We can take some pictures around town, so it won’t all go to waste.”

“Oh, good idea.” He puts the two ready to be developed in his coat pockets and the rest back in his bag. “Ready?”

“Yeah. Don’t forget your drink.” He points to Dipper’s before getting his own off the table. It’s cooled down quite a bit, and he tries another sip — definitely hazelnut.

They bump into a few people on the way to the elevator and notice that the receptionist is, thankfully, different from the one who saw them burst inside last night. It’s chillier than it was yesterday — not enough to warrant two coats, Norman thinks, but enough for him to curl his fingers around his cup as a heat source.

“Did you find anywhere good to go to while you were out this morning?”

“There’s that pizza place we looked at. We could go there for lunch. Or breakfast, for you.”

“What, Mothman coffee isn’t a nutritious breakfast?” He holds it up with an innocent smile.

“Not quite, dude.” Dipper laughs.

The building doesn’t look like anything special, just a small pizza place, but it’s warm and welcoming inside. They sit at a booth, and the second they open the menu, Dipper gives a triumphant “a-ha!”

Norman looks up at him quizzically, but he points at something on his menu before he can ask. “Oh, we have to get the Mothman pizza.”

And just like that, their order is decided. The waiter comes by after a minute and takes it for them, along with their menus. Dipper waits until he’s out of earshot before asking, “Have you seen anything else here?”

It’s vague, but Norman knows what he means. He shakes his head, fiddling with the straw wrapper. “Not any more than any other given place. I’m sure that would change if we went near where the bridge was, but not here in town. Or the woods.”

“I’m kinda surprised,” he says.

“Me, too. I guess it’s a good thing, though. It doesn’t shed any light on Mothman, but it does show that he doesn’t just up and kill people. Or… Not frequently, at least.”

“No, he just chases us back to our room.” Dipper chuckles. “I dunno. He’s a weird cryptid. No matter what angle I come from, I can’t think of anything he would want. Besides just… Nothing. Just existing, and he’s just like that.”

“Do you think he’s sentient, even?”

“Surely. I don’t see why he wouldn’t be.” He leans back in the booth as their food comes out and gives a “no thanks, looks good,” when the waiter asks if they need anything else.

“This is… something else,” Norman says, looking down at the array of toppings.

“It’s _perfect_.” Dipper pulls off a piece with mushrooms and pepperoni and takes a huge bite. “Hm. And hot.”

“It probably just came out of the oven,” he laughs.

“Bold of you to think that’d stop me.”

“I think it looks pretty close. Despite the third of a missing wing.”

“If Mothman tastes this good, I’ll catch him myself,” says Dipper, already picking out his second piece.

“Eating Mothman is on par with eating, like… I dunno. _Starry Night_. It’d be one of a kind, gone.”

“For a good cause. If we make the discovery that oil paint tastes good, I guarantee you someone will eat _Starry Night_.”

“I think we’ve already made the discovery that oil paint tastes very bad.”

Dipper shrugs. “Didn’t stop Mabel from eating it when we were younger. She said it’d make a painting inside of her, which would therefore be worth more than any other painting ever. Or something like that.”

“She might be onto something,” Norman says, pointing at him with his slice. “She always has good ideas.”

“‘Always’ is pushing it.”

They devour the rest of the food — of all of the forms they’ve seen him in so far, Mothman is definitely best in pizza form, they decide. Dipper bumps Norman’s shoulder once they’re back outside.

“We have a very important mission that we have not accomplished yet.”

“What’s that?”

“I think we’ll have to get a taxi.”

Fifteen minutes later, they’re standing in front of the Mothman statue. It is definitely a disgrace to the hunkering, formless being they saw last night, but Dipper goes behind it and holds his arms up, as if presenting the ass.

“Behold! The accuracy!” he proclaims.

“Wait, stay there.” Norman reaches into Dipper’s bag and gets out one of the cameras, snapping a photo on it with a laugh. They won’t know until they get it developed, of course, but he’s sure it’s one for the books.

Or, at least, one to give to Mabel and Pacifica for Christmas.


End file.
